


Risk

by petyrbaealish



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 06:25:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12163305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish
Summary: Based on a prompt from ericanoelle on tumblr: "A fic where Sansa has given Petyr a bastard child. I like the idea of it being a huge scandal. Modern or set in GOT is fine."This focuses less on the scandal aspect, but hopefully you'll like it just the same :)An AU where Lysa never spotted Sansa and Petyr's iconic kiss in the snow. Sansa learns that some things are worth the risk, and love is one of them.





	Risk

**Risk**

Sansa Stark had nearly finished her snow castle, built entirely with Winterfell in mind, when her sickly cousin had come and ruined all of her hard work. She’d lashed out, causing the boy to spiral into another of his wretched fits, though her despair afterwards was more in concern for her own well being than her cousin’s. Her Aunt Lysa appeared to be exceedingly protective of her only son, something that only exacerbated the boy’s unfortunate behavior, and Sansa was loath to think of the wrath that might await her once Lysa found out what she’d done. She hadn’t been in the Eyrie long, but she had gotten a good enough grasp of her aunt’s character nonetheless. Lysa’s temper was beholden to none, especially where Sweetrobin was concerned.

Sighing in frustration, she knelt back in the snow and attempted to repair the damage, trying to not to think of how Lysa might react. Perhaps her aunt would send her away, though she doubted Lord Baelish would allow it. Sansa wasn’t entirely sure what interest Lord Baelish had in her, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d rescued her from the Lannister’s clutches simply out of the goodness of his heart. Nor did she get the feeling that he actually loved her Aunt Lysa, though that wasn’t entirely surprising. Not many married for love. Doing so was a luxury few were afforded. Sansa herself had been no exception, forced to marry Tyrion Lannister, better known as the Imp. Though of course, he was likely dead now, having been blamed for Joffrey’s death…

Regardless of Lord Baelish’s intentions, Sansa had a feeling he wouldn’t allow Lysa to send her away. He needed her, as a piece in the game he was always playing, and, for the moment at least, she’d allow it. Not that she had much of a choice. Lysa seemed to hold very little regard for her, both of her parents were dead, along with Robb, and Bran and Rickon. Arya was missing, and her half brother Jon was at the Wall. Sansa had no one, no one save the man that had spirited her away from King’s Landing, and while she had learned that her trust was better kept to herself, she couldn’t help but lean on him. He’d saved her once, and he’d do it again, if only to further his gains for the future. And she could live with that. Protection, for whatever the reasons, was most welcome, when the country was at war, and she was wanted for treason.

As she reshaped the walls of her family’s home, one of the few aspects of her past that was still standing (albeit currently under the control of Boltons), she heard soft footfalls, the crunch of snow as someone trespassed on her solitude. Sansa glanced up, brushing her newly dyed raven hair from her eyes with a snow crusted glove as the very man she’d been thinking of neared the evidence of her burst of childish whimsy. Lord Baelish was dressed warmly, a thick black cloak draped over his shoulders, the fabric some of the finest she’d ever seen. Snow was already flecking in his dark hair, the grey streaks at his temples more prominent against his dark clothes. His eyes met hers, mouth lifting in a smirk that she’d come to imagine whenever she happened to think of him, as though the two were irreparably intertwined.

“Might I come into your castle, my lady?” he asked, stopping just outside the barrier walls she’d constructed.

Sansa blinked, remembering hours spent with her siblings, playing a game of a similar name, the memory taking her off guard. “Yes,” she stammered. “Only be careful. Don’t…” She trailed off as he stepped gingerly over the wall.

“I’ll be gentle,” he assured her, picking his way through her sprawling masterpiece, careful not to disturb anything as he made his way over to her side.

She turned to face him as he approached, offering him a tentative smile. “I was just fixing it,” she explained, then realized she might have been better off not referring to Robin’s mishap. Of course, everyone likely already knew, anyway….

Lord Baelish’s gaze swept over the castle with a studied air. “Is this a likeness of Winterfell?”

Sansa nodded. “I miss it,” she confessed, wringing her hands at the sudden influx of longing that coursed through her veins. “Though I never really appreciated it when I was there. Somehow that makes the pain that much worse.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “ It’s quite cold, in the North, is it not? Is the original wrought from snow and ice as well?”

In spite of herself, she laughed, her sorrow tempered by amusement. Sansa suspected that might have been his intent, for of course he knew that Winterfell wasn’t constructed of snow, but stone and wood, like every other structure in Westeros. “It is cold there, even in the summers,” she admitted. “Though the hot springs keep the castle warm enough.”

He smiled. “Clearly not, then, else your home would melt.” His gaze trained on her hands, which were still twisting together, remnants of her earlier anxiety. Reaching out, he calmed their movements, taking both of her hands in his.

Sansa’s heart stuttered at the sudden contact. He hadn’t touched her since they’d arrived at the Eyrie. She’d almost forgotten the way it felt, pulse skipping along in anticipation of something she couldn’t quite define. Swallowing, she lowered her gaze, eyes fixated on their joined hands.

“How long have you been outside, sweetling?” Lord Baelish asked, rubbing his fingers along hers. Though she could not see it, a frown was evident in his tone. “Your hands are freezing.”

Sansa gulped, her tongue struggling to formulate an answer. The effect he was having on her was entirely new, something that had slowly grown with their increased time spent together. Partially born from gratitude, and partially from having learned more about him, gaining comfort in his mannerisms, the sound of his voice, his familiar presence. “I do not know, my lord. Since this morning. But I’ve hardly felt the cold.”

He chuckled, and the sound shot straight through her, a bolt down her spine, to a place wholly unfamiliar to her. “A Northern girl, to be sure.”

She raised her eyes, catching his own, and was startled by their gorgeous intensity, curling mist and crawling ivy intertwining, an intricate dance the reflected the complexity within. Every ounce of common sense told her to look away, and yet she couldn’t. She didn’t want to. But though her body refused to comply, she couldn’t ignore the warning bells in her mind. If Lysa were to see them, even with a small intimacy such as this, there would be untold consequences. Her aunt was a jealous woman.

“Lord Baelish,” she pleaded, hoping he would gather her meaning and release her hands and her gaze, and hoping he wouldn’t and that they might stay in this moment forever.

His eyes darted lower, then back to hers, and he removed one hand from hers, raising it to cup her cheek instead. One thumb trailed along her cheekbone, and she unconsciously licked her lips, her fingers tightening as they gripped his other hand. A step closer, then another, and his lips were just a whisper away from hers. “Call me Petyr,” he breathed.

And then he closed the distance. It was a gentle press that stirred every nerve ending within her, her heart ricocheting beneath her ribcage, and when he made to pull back, she whimpered, tugging on his hand to halt his retreat. Sansa felt his breath catch before he complied, his hand slipping into her hair as their mouths met again. Her mind told her to stop, that this was reckless, but every other part of her resisted, her hands releasing his to wind around his torso, pulling him closer still. This was something she’d only grasped at, in songs and observations of other couples. The heat stirring in her veins was frightening, yet thrilling, and oh, how she craved more.

When Petyr (she couldn’t just call him Lord Baelish anymore. Not now, not after such a kiss. It didn’t feel right anymore, to subscribe to such formality. And he’d asked her to refer to him by name, after all) pulled away once more, Sansa immediately felt the loss, the brief moment of bliss ripped away from her. His eyes looked darker, somehow, his expression briefly startled, until he managed to compose himself once more. She shivered, suddenly feeling the cold seeping beneath her clothes, into her bones, where before she’d hardly noticed it, as if he had taken all of her warmth with him when he’d stepped back.

Petyr stared at her for a moment, seemingly gathering his thoughts, then inclined his head. “You should head back inside, my lady. It seems the cold has finally caught up to you.” He paused. “Perhaps some mulled wine, or a warm bath. A fire, at the very least.”

Sansa only nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and when he held out his arm, she took it gratefully. He escorted her back inside, and she hardly noticed where they were going, too preoccupied with her pattering heart and muddled thoughts, until they arrived at an unfamiliar door. Petyr opened it and ushered her inside, closing the door behind them and locking it swiftly. At her questioning gaze, his mouth lifted in a smirk.

“My solar,” he clarified. “The fire is already lit, which cannot be said for your own chambers.” He gestured towards a chair by the fire. “Please, sit.”

She walked numbly over to the hearth, choosing to stand, for the moment at least, and held her hands out towards the inviting flames. The few flakes still clinging to her gloves turned transparent as they melted, the water dissolving into the already damp fabric. Without a word, Petyr joined her, reaching out to gently remove her gloves, one by one, setting them on the mantel. His hands were already bare, the sensation of his skin against hers almost sinful as he ran his thumbs over her knuckles, a soft caress that sparked warmth that had little to do with the nearby fire or the transfer of body heat.

Sansa began to feel overwarm, standing there by the fire, still dressed in her cloak, the thick fabric feeling rather suffocating. As if Petyr knew her thoughts, he raised their joined hands to place a kiss across her knuckles, and released his grip, moving instead to unfasten her cloak. His presence behind her made her want to fall back against his chest, and indeed she wavered slightly on her feet before catching herself, thoughts brimming with chastisement. He was married to her aunt, her uncle by law. And she herself was married, though likely not for much longer…

Petyr draped her cloak over a nearby chair, the better for the fire to dry it out, then turned to face her again. Sansa caught his gaze, startled to see the fire reflected there, as if the ivy had caught aflame, the mist turned to smoke. When he spoke, she didn’t hear him the first time, too mesmerized by the vision.

“Are you warm enough now?” he repeated, his voice even huskier than normal, the gravel scraping down her spine in a delicious shiver.

She nodded. “Almost too warm, in truth,” she admitted.

His mouth quirked and he took her hand, drawing her away from the fire. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t stand so close.”

Sansa didn’t bother to tell him that the fire had little to do with the heat flushing her skin. Though, perhaps he already knew that, judging by the wicked glint in his eyes, the way what he’d just said could be interpreted entirely differently than her proximity to the fire. They stood there, suspended in the moment, her hand still clasped in his, and then he led her over to the loveseat, tugging her down to sit next to him.

They were still close, so close, and yet those tiny spaces between them felt like acres, oceans even, or the impenetrable wall that divided the North from what lay beyond, the domain of the wildlings. Only Sansa wanted to breach that wall, and she felt that it had already nearly melted from the scorching heat already, all she need do was cross that distance. But the Wall was there for a reason, to protect the citizens of the North, to protect her, and perhaps it was better not to break through. This was dangerous. They were both married, and she was masquerading as his bastard daughter, on the run for a crime she hadn’t committed, though she wished she had. A crime that Petyr himself was actually behind, though of course she was one of the few who knew that.

But his hand still held hers, and when she met his gaze again, she could still see the fire, though he was facing away from the mantel. So, instead of fleeing from the moment, of reprimanding him for the propriety, she silently begged for more, hoping he would know what she wanted, as perceptive as he always seemed to be. Clearly, his wits were more than up to the task (though perhaps that wasn’t the greatest measure of a man’s cleverness), as it wasn’t long before his fingers had threaded in her hair and his mouth found hers once more.

The kiss held far more urgency this time, and she felt his stubble graze the sensitive skin around her lips, rough but not entirely unpleasant. Sansa gasped at the sensation, her lips parting under his. Their tongues met and she tasted mint, a shiver washing over her in shockwaves that simultaneously cooled and stoked the fire, heat and chill mingling despite their contradictory natures. She felt raw and molten under his touch as he gripped her shoulders, squeezing gently before his fingers trailed along her spine, spreading fire in their wake.

This was like nothing she’d ever imagined, whenever her thoughts had strayed before to the intimacies between a man and a women. She’d been kissed before, by Joffrey, and the Hound, Tyrion at their wedding, and of course Petyr, outside in the snow only an hour ago, perhaps, and yet nothing could have prepared her for this. Was this what drove men to whorehouses, to father countless bastards, to start wars? Was this what awaited all maidens on their wedding night, what created life for every being in the known world?

They were only kissing, and yet it felt so wonderful, so exquisite, and she could see why some men chose to pay for it. If she felt this way now, she could only wonder at how much better it would be to go further still. Sansa craved to know, and yet she wasn’t certain if she dared to. If he would even want to. If it was worth the risk, to anger her aunt if she found out, to chance her womb quickening, to risk everything, including her life. Was it worth it?

The answer was clear only in the way her movements never faltered. Her body knew what it wanted, even if her mind didn’t, though of course her body wasn’t exactly capable of reason like her mind was. Still, it won out, its need stronger than her worries, and her head was spinning when his lips left hers, trailing up the curve of her jaw to suck on her earlobe. With a jolt, she realized that she was straddling his lap, and she only vaguely remembered how she had gotten there. Between her thighs, she could feel a growing wetness that made her blush, and a hardness pressed against her sex that made her blush harder still.

Her pulse was throbbing insistently, its peak centered curiously between her thighs rather than beneath her ribcage. Petyr’s mouth moved to her neck, and she twitched as tantalizing chills shivered through her, her center brushing against the bulge she knew to be his, and she twitched again at the sudden rush of pleasure. A strangled gasp left her lips, and she couldn’t help moving her hips again, in search of that same blissful twinge. There it was, again, and oh, no she couldn’t stop now, could she? She needed more.

Sansa kept moving against him, her hands on his shoulders, knowing she was behaving less than ladylike, and not caring, not as long as she felt this good. Petyr’s lips traveled lower, his hands lower still, and he buried his face in her bosom as his hands gripped her backside, kneading her flesh through the folds of her skirt. Every movement brought her closer to something, something she needed and craved, something she desperately wanted. His hands found their way to the stays of her dress, before slipping beneath her skirt and dragging the fabric up, up, and off as she raised her arms to aid him. Another beat and her shift joined her dress to crumple on the floor, only her smallclothes remaining.

Before she could think to be embarrassed, her breasts bared to a man for the very first time, he’d caught one of her nipples in his mouth, his thumb rubbing circles around the other, and her mouth fell open, a whimper spilling out of its own accord. She felt dizzy with the pleasure singing through her veins, so intent on the way his mouth felt against her breast that she forgot her earlier chase. Tongue and teeth and lips tugged and sucked and licked, then transferred to her other breast, driving her nearly mad with need, every moment fulfilling and yet somehow leaving her wanting more, more, always more.

She was trembling above him when he finally released her breast with an audible pop, his mouth immediately finding hers again. The kiss was fiercer still than the last time, and he pulled her flush against his chest as their tongues tangled, her sensitive nipples brushing against the fabric of his tunic. Petyr’s hands rubbed up along her thighs, fingers dancing along her skin, closer and closer, and closer still, until they crept beneath her smallclothes, whispering against her sex. Sansa’s hips jerked, entirely on instinct, and she gasped, severing the kiss for a moment before surging forward again. His fingers had halted momentarily, a brief span of uncertainty, but at her clear acceptance, they resumed their attentions, stroking the length of her sex before finding a spot she hadn’t known existed, movements practiced and achingly sweet.

Without knowing she was doing it, she started bucking against his hand, biting his lip as she sought the great unknown. Petyr hissed as she drew blood, though he didn’t stop and she released his lower lip with a pang of regret even as the tension overwhelmed her, spilling over into the sweetest relief she’d ever known. The moan that sprawled from her lips sounded suspiciously like his name, but nearly bare above him, his hand still against her sex, she couldn’t find it in herself to be ashamed. Instead, she met his gaze, rather brazenly so, and smiled, lips curving from the satisfaction she’d found.

His eyes bored into hers, before she remembered his lip, and dropped her gaze. It was still bleeding, ever so slightly, but the damage was minimal. Still, she felt regretful as she raised her fingers to swipe away the blooming blood, leaning forward afterwards to seal the wound with a kiss. If it hurt, he didn’t show it, instead deepening the kiss when she made to pull back. Quicker than she could have imagined, he reignited that want that she’d thought satiated, and her hands scrabbled over his chest, seeking to divest him of the barriers still cloaking his skin from her.

Petyr hesitated at first, then acquiesced, helping her remove his tunic. When he was bare, she saw why, her surprise barely contained as her eyes trailed over the long scar stretching across his chest, navel to collarbone. Sansa had heard rumors of that scar, but she’d forgotten about it until now, and hearing about it was nothing compared to actually seeing it. She decided not to comment on it, suspecting that his hesitation was an unspoken hint at a vulnerability he was loathe to reveal. Instead, she leaned in and kissed him again, her hands smoothing over his shoulders, down his arms, as their bared chests met.

She’d never known how amazing it could feel, the press of skin against skin, and she wanted more, for all barriers to be gone until there was nothing left to separate the pair of them. Petyr’s hands tickled down her back, finding her smallclothes again, and as they slipped beneath the fabric she raised her hips in a silent plea. His mouth curved under hers and his hands gripped her waist, pushing her backwards off of his lap to stand on unsteady limbs. He followed her up, lips never leaving hers as he dragged the fabric down her hips, down her slender legs, releasing it to pool on the floor around her feet.

Sansa stepped free and reached for the ties of his breeches, heart pounding with a mix of anxiety and anticipation. She was quickly arriving at the point of no return, and yet that thought gave her little pause. What did, however was the reminder that women were known to feel pain, at least the first time. Somehow, she’d forgotten that, and she couldn’t help but fear the possibility, not knowing truly how much it was meant to hurt. Would it feel good enough to temper the pain, whatever the level? She hoped so. Knowing her earlier release, she suspected that any measure of pain might be worth it. And yet still she flinched inwardly at the thought. She’d never been particularly brave when it came to personal injury.

Her thoughts soon dipped onto another track, as she pushed his breeches down his narrow hips and caught her first glimpse at what awaited her. Sansa wasn’t exactly all too knowledgeable in male genitalia, but she suspected all of those jokes concerning his nickname were far from warranted. Certainly, she was wondering how he was going to fit, filling up the space she’d hitherto left unexplored.

Tentatively, and all too aware of Petyr watching her, she reached over and wrapped her fingers around his length, startled at the stark contrast of smooth skin and firm weight in her palm. Experimentally, she slid her hand down to the base and back up to the tip, smiling when she felt him twitch in her grasp. His hands cupped her cheeks, forcing her gaze back up to meet his, and he kissed her again. Her hands forgot their experimentation, slipping instead around his waist as she drew closer, remembering her need for full skin on skin contact.

It was as heartstopping as she’d hoped, their hands wandering frantically as lips, tongue and teeth clashed. They dropped to their knees, and then her back was against the floor, cushioned only by the plush rug that ran the length of the room. She didn’t mind, not when every nerve was alight with something that eclipsed that discomfort, her limbs encircling Petyr’s body as he joined her. His length brushed against her sex, and the reality of what they were doing suddenly washed over her once more with a crushing force. Was she really ready? Was the risk really worth it?

Her mind kept stuttering, thoughts fragmenting, pulled between her doubts and the sinful presses of his lips against her skin, trailing lower and lower, and lower still. Sansa bit her lip to temper the moans that threatened to burst free, watching his descent with aching curiosity. Was Petyr intent on kissing every inch of her? Or did he have some ulterior agenda? That mouth seemed to have purpose as he paused, hovering just above her sex, eyes full of wicked intent. Before she could guess what he meant to do, he’d kissed her there, right between her thighs, his tongue flicking against sensitive flesh, and she gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle the noise.

Oh, this was even better than before, though a part of her felt terribly self conscious, knowing just where his mouth was. Sansa wondered if this was a common act, and if not, why not? It felt so wrong and yet so unbelievably right, and she found herself reaching down to thread her fingers in his hair, urging him on. Strangely enough, Petyr seemed to be enjoying himself, though she was certain she had him beat, in that regard. Before she’d gotten used to the idea of the manner in which he was pleasing her, she trembled and broke a second time, just as he’d slipped a finger inside of her.

Though she’d already reached her peak, he didn’t relent, working his mouth against her folds as he stroked her from within. Slowly, slowly, he added a second finger, stretching her walls, his digits making her crave a sudden fullness that was entirely foreign to her. Sansa knew she wanted this, that she couldn’t wait a moment longer, that she needed him inside of her, as he was meant to be. She tugged on his hair so that he would raise his head, then locked her gaze with his, her meaning clear, though she spoke not a word.

Petyr placed one last kiss between her thighs, his mouth meeting hers a second later. Sansa hummed in approval against his lips as he reached between them, positioning himself at her entrance, and then he was filling her, slowly, deliberately, exquisitely. The pain she’d steeled herself for never came, though at first slight discomfort mingled with the stirrings of something wonderful, her body unused to such an intrusion. He stilled for a moment, breaking their kiss to assess her reaction, then returned the smile she gave him and began to move, pulling out and sliding back inside of her in a steady rhythm.

Sansa quickly adjusted to his movements, the discomfort subsiding, fading entirely to give way to the heat blooming at her center. With every thrust, she felt it spike, and soon she’d gained confidence enough to try and meet his movements. The pride in Petyr’s eyes was evident, even with his pupils blown wide, his mouth quirking in a smirk that just begged her to taste it. She willingly gave in to the temptation, nipping at his lips before sucking on his tongue, eliciting a low growl from him that spurred their hips into a frenzy. Faster and faster, he plunged into her, harder and harder, and suddenly Sansa knew the true meaning behind the word passion. And oh, gods, yes, it certainly was worth the risk.

There was something different about this, the fire scorching through her veins, than the other times. This felt more intimate, as they both strove together towards that moment of release. And as good as she had felt before, this was uncomparable, the way she knew he was just as lost as she was, every strike a flare that singed through every nerve. Their connection, in that moment, was insurmountable, their bond unbreakable, and as Sansa convulsed and cried out, Petyr’s name muffled against his lips, he suddenly pulled out. She watched as he worked his hand up and down his length a few times before her name, her true name, not the guise she’d been living under, hissed from his lips, and he spilled his seed across her belly.

He stared down at her for a moment, chest heaving, nearly in time with her own, then lowered himself to the ground and kissed her, a sweet, lingering press that left her lips pulsing gently. Another kiss, to her nose, and then to her forehead, and he pulled away, resting on his back beside her, though his face was still turned towards hers. Sansa moved onto her side, gaze wandering the length of his body as her breathing normalized, memorizing every line.

When her eyes found his again, she saw that he’d been watching her, and for the first time she realized how unguarded his expression was. Gone was the mask she’d come to associate with him, nearly as much as that smirk. Sansa was startled to see such tenderness and affection, reflected in his gaze, and even more surprised to realize that she’d just given herself to him without knowing how he truly felt about her. Seeking to remedy that error in judgement, at least in part, she decided to take advantage of this rare crack in his facade, and gain what knowledge she could.

Shifting closer, so that her nose brushed against his, her belly near his hip, she ventured to speak, asking a question she’d already posed to him before, in hopes of gaining further insight. “What do you want?”

Petyr’s gaze traveled along her body before meeting hers again. “Everything.”

Undeterred, she tried again. “And what does everything entail, Petyr?”

His mouth quirked as she used his given name. “Among other things?” He shifted onto his side, one hand curving around her waist to pull her closer. “You.”

Her breath caught and she searched his countenance for a hint of deception. Finding none, she bravely continued. “And now that you have me?”

“Do I?” His eyebrows lifted. “Not quite, sweetling. But that will be remedied, in time.” He kissed her then, and she felt positively giddy with this newest revelation.

“How?” Sansa asked, when he pulled away again. She didn’t mean to push her luck, but she was anxious to know, to be let into his plans as much as he would allow. The chance to be this close to him might not come again for quite some time.

Petyr considered her for a moment, eyes thoughtful. “What do you want?”

She bit her lip, suddenly shy. “I’d thought that was obvious, my lord.”

He clicked his tongue in gentle chastisement. “There’s hardly merit for such formality. As for whether it’s obvious, enlighten me regardless.”

Sansa squirmed, uncomfortable to bare her soul, even as she’d already bared so much else to him. “To be with you,” she said finally. “And to reclaim my home.”

The smirk returned, just before his lips found hers again. “What a coincidence,” he whispered. “It seems we have similar aspirations.”

She frowned, confused. “You want to reclaim Winterfell? Why?”

“For you, of course,” Petyr replied, toying with a lock of her hair.

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him. It couldn’t be that simple. It never was, with him. “And?”

“And doing so might also benefit me in other ways,” he clarified, still keeping purposefully vague.

She retreated from his embrace, suddenly feeling foolish. “And why do you want me, then?”

He frowned, reaching out to pull her closer again. “For too many reasons to count, sweetling. I will not pretend that I do not have reasons far beyond affection, but I have come to truly care for you. Wholly unexpectedly I might add.” He paused. “Long ago, I promised myself never to be so foolish as to give my heart away again. I nearly died for love, once. I have been determined not to make that mistake again, ever since.”

“And now?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

Petyr hesitated. “It seems I am bound to repeat my mistakes,” he said finally, “as your aunt will surely send me through the moon door once she discovers I have broken my vows.”

Sansa smiled at the feeble attempt at a joke, though she noticed he still refrained from giving her a direct answer. Perhaps, as much as he tried to hide it, he was just as vulnerable to getting hurt as she was. For now, at least, she’d let it pass. As it was, she wasn’t entirely certain of her own feelings. She wanted him, desperately so. Enough to risk her aunt’s wrath. But was it love?

“What do we do now?” she wondered, hoping he had a plan in mind.

“For now? We keep this little secret, and we wait. Things will change, sweetling, but we must have patience. Everything will fall into place, soon enough.” Petyr tossed her a winning smirk. “Until then, I imagine we can find a few moments to spare alone. Your cousin is quite ill, after all. My wife will likely be busy doting on her only son.”

 

* * *

 

It was months before their hand was forced, by a most unwelcome revelation. They’d been careful, and yet an unexpected shortage of the herbs used for moon tea suddenly left them in a lurch, and she was unable to take her monthly dose to ensure she wouldn’t become with child. Sansa had prayed, to the old gods and new, for her moonsblood to come, and yet it hadn’t. Petyr did his best to try and surreptitiously procure the necessary herbs, but it seemed that all across the country a pestilence had eaten away at countless crops, including those needed for moon tea.

Ever the resourceful man, Petyr took the news in stride, simply hastening his plans. Loathe to simply abandon all of his hard work, or put her life at risk, he filled her in on the basics, and together they made their moves. First, they each dug into their respective roles, Petyr charming his wife, and Sansa charming her cousin, until her Aunt Lysa finally bent to their will and officially declared an engagement between Alayne Stone (the name she’d adopted for security’s sake) and Sweetrobin. The boy was thirteen now, younger than Sansa, but old enough to marry, and even in his weakened state, he would fulfill his purpose nicely.

Of course, the more prominent citizens of the Eyrie were quite confused by the sudden engagement of the young lord of the Eyrie to the bastard daughter of their lady’s new husband, but they well knew not to question Lysa, for to do so might earn them a trip through the moon door. Finding they’d rather not risk their lives, they kept quiet on the matter, at least publicly. So, despite the whispers of discontent, the arrangement was uncontested.

Next, they planned the wedding, doing their best to hasten the arrangements, so that Sansa would not begin to show before she was wed. Among the cooks, seamstresses, florists, and entertainers, one singer in particular caught Lysa’s eye, a young man named Marillion. Every night, he serenaded her, prompted by financial compensation from Petyr, ensuring that she was positively enamoured with the singer. This distraction gave Sansa and Petyr more time alone together, to finalize their plans, and to enjoy the comfort of each other’s embrace.

They’d planned to rid themselves of Lysa once Sansa had been married to her cousin, Robin passing away from ‘natural causes’ shortly after, and Lysa ‘committing suicide’ in her grief over the loss of her son. This would have been the most prudent succession of events. But unfortunately, even the best plans were wont to go astray.

When Lysa summoned Sansa to the room where they commonly held court, Sansa had thought nothing of it, since her aunt seemed to hold a particular fondness for the space. The architecture was stunning, and the close proximity of the moon door likely gave Lysa a particular pleasure, as she remembered all of the victims she and her horrid son had sent through it to their deaths. In addition, the room was to set the stage for the upcoming nuptials, so Sansa had expected that her aunt had wanted to talk more of wedding preparations, namely the decor for the occasion.

However, when Sansa arrived, she’d realized her mistake at once. The doors closed behind her with a startling finality, the unmistakable sounds of locks sliding into place echoing through the empty room. Lysa was standing near the moon door, staring into its depths with an air of contemplation. The singer Marillion stood by her side, singing softly.

Swallowing down her rising panic, Sansa surreptitiously tested the doors, heart sinking when they failed to budge.

“Why do you wish to leave, my sweet niece?” Lysa called out to her, her voice filled with false joviality. “You’ve only just arrived.”

Sansa slowly turned to face her aunt, dread building in her veins. They’d been so careful…

“Come,” her aunt said, beckoning her closer before turning to Marillion. “I should like to talk with her in private. Escort her to me, then stand before the doors and sing us a little tune.”

Marillion bowed to Lysa then started towards Sansa, his features reflecting a malice she hadn’t seen there before. Knowing that he was capable of strong arming her over to her aunt’s side, Sansa chose instead to come willingly, in hopes that her agreeability might soften Lysa’s resolve. She did, however, stop several paces away from the moon door, not wanting to tempt fate. Lysa gave her a twisted smile, running her gaze down the length of Sansa’s body with a cruel glint in her eyes.

At the other end of the room, Marillion began to sing, increasing his volume at Lysa’s direction. Sansa fought to keep her composure, making sure not to wring her hands or show any signs of distress. To reveal her emotions now would be a weakness her aunt was sure to exploit. If she acted anxious, then Lysa was certain to read it as proof of a guilty conscience.

There was a long pause as Sansa did her best to withstand her aunt’s scrutiny, then--- “How long have you been whoring yourself out to my husband?” Lysa asked sharply, getting right to the heart of the matter.

Sansa took a step backwards, startled. “What?” she stammered, more caught off guard by the bluntness of the question than by its actual content. No matter, it would only help her to maintain an air of ignorance. “I would never---”

“Don't lie to me,” her aunt hissed, stalking towards her like an angry goose, the white feathers adorning her gown today doing nothing to dispel the vision. “A servant saw you leave his solar in the middle of the night.” Lysa stopped mere inches away, her face close enough to Sansa’s that she felt flecks of her aunt’s spittle against her skin. “How long?”

Sansa tried to back away, shaking her head in denial, but Lysa seized her by the hair and dragged her towards the moon door. Shrieking with pain, Sansa’s feet scrabbled for purchase as she was hauled closer to certain death. She was on her knees when Lysa stopped at the very edge, bent double to shove Sansa’s face closer to vast drop below.

“How long?” her aunt snarled again. “I took you in, at great personal risk, and this is how you repay me? By attempting to steal Petyr from me?” Lysa’s grip on Sansa’s hair tightened painfully, nails scraping against the sensitive skin of her scalp. “Your dear mother once tried the same thing. Oh, she never wanted him, of course, but she led him on just the same. And yet here we are, your mother dead and buried, and I’m the one who became his wife. We were always meant to be, he and I, and there’s nothing anyone can do to part us. You’re just a plaything to him, nothing more.”

As her aunt spoke, Marillion continued singing and playing in the background, his cheerful song a rather morbid accompaniment to Lysa’s words and actions.

Tears blurred Sansa’s vision, her fear of tumbling to her death mixing with the doubts that had plagued her throughout her affair with Petyr. “I haven’t done anything,” she gasped, her hands clutching the edge for dear life.

Lysa laughed and pushed her closer to the door’s opening, the sound laced with hysteria. Sansa fought against her aunt’s iron grip, struggling with everything she had, until a door suddenly banged open, and Marillion stopped singing midword.

“Lysa.” It was not spoken loudly, and yet that one word held far more menace to it than the fiercest battle cry. Sansa felt a trickle of hope worm its way into her terror, though she did her best not to show it, for fear that relaxing, even for a moment, might spell her doom.

Petyr’s footsteps echoed off of the cold floor, and Sansa could feel Lysa twisting above her to watch his approach. “Let her go,” he ordered, voice deadly calm..

Lysa trembled. “You can’t love her,” she pleaded. “You just can’t.”

“You’re my wife,” he said firmly. “Not her. Now let her go.”

Sansa could feel him drawing closer, and Lysa’s fingers loosened in her hair. Quickly, she crawled back to safety, as Lysa fell into his arms with a strangled sob. Sansa caught the strange glint in his eyes as he held Lysa, softly shushing her for a moment before holding her at arm’s length.

“Oh, my sweet, silly little wife,” he murmured, shaking his head in amusement. “There's only one woman I love in this room."

Lysa peered at him with a hopeful smile. "Truly?"

Petyr’s expression changed, his mask slipping to reveal the hatred underneath as he said, "Sansa."

In one swift movement he pushed Lysa backwards, and she flailed through the air, horror etched in every line of her face, before toppling down, down, down, to the rocks below. She never made a sound, the whistle of the wind the only audible sign of her departure.

Another second, and Petyr was by Sansa’s side, pulling her into his arms. She clung to him gratefully, mind churning with everything that had just happened. Her aunt was dead. And Petyr, he’d just said… Had he said he loved her?

Somehow, of the two occurrences, that revelation had struck her far more than Lysa’s untimely demise. Perhaps it was because they’d planned for her aunt’s death, though certainly not this soon, and not in this manner. Or perhaps it was because his declaration meant far more to her than an aunt who had never treated her all too kindly.

Sansa might have stayed in his embrace forever, might have begged him to repeat his words, and kissed him, again and again, but Petyr, ever mindful of the game, pressed a kiss to her forehead and rose to his feet. She watched from the floor as he walked over to where Marillion still stood, looking positively dumbstruck. Rather than acknowledging the singer, Petyr strode to the doors and spoke quietly through them. They opened at once, admitting two guards, who peered into the room with suspicion.

Petyr said something, though Sansa didn’t hear what it was, her mind too focused on prior events. She watched in a daze as the guards nodded to each other, then seized Marillion, hauling him bodily from the room.

Moments later, she found herself being guided back to Petyr’s solar, where he urged her to sit in the loveseat by the fire, before pressing a glass of Arbor Gold into her hand. Numbly, she took a sip, her eyes trained on the flames dancing in the hearth. All this time, and he hadn’t once said the words. The three that meant everything to her, that she’d longed to hear. And even now, they were only inferred, not said outright. She wanted to hear it, straight from his lips, with no other agenda than to express his adoration. Now.

Petyr sat next to her, one of his hands finding hers where it lay curled in her lap. At his touch, she turned and raised her eyes to meet his, instilling within her gaze a silent plea. Say it.

“Are you alright, sweetling?”

Sansa looked away, pulling her hand from his to wipe away the angry tears that began to slip down her cheeks. Petyr shifted closer, reaching up to cup her face in his hands, thumbs wiping away the trails sneaking down her pale skin. He frowned. “Surely you do not mourn your aunt?”

A bitter laugh spilled from her lips and she shook her head, only slightly. “No, I do not.”

“Then why the tears, my love?”

Sansa’s breath hitched and she stared at him, gaze searching. It wasn’t quite what she wanted, and yet it was still something, another step closer, and she studied his features in earnest, anxious to see whether his words held the meaning behind them that she wished. His eyes were warm, open and honest, inviting. Tempered with concern. Completely unguarded, around her, and her alone.

She took that knowledge and clung to it, letting it bolster her courage. They’d created a life together, one even now growing in her womb. And they’d worked together to create their own happy ending, one that included deception and murder, but ended with their joining in holy matrimony, and raising the child as their heir to the Eyrie. That he was willing to risk so much for her, to keep the child, to be with her, surely spoke volumes more than those three little words, did it not? Perhaps, if she were to say them, here and now, she’d receive that final confirmation. It was worth a try.

“Thank you,” she said. “For saving me. Again.” She paused. “I do not know what I would do without you, Petyr. And not just because I’d still be the Lannister’s plaything, or because of the child, but because I love you. With all my heart.” She finished the declaration with her pounding heart echoing in her ears, and waited for the moment that would either bring interminable joy or heartbreak.

Petyr wiped another stray tear away as it tumbled down her cheek, his mouth curving in a genuine smile. “And this is the cause of your tears? Forgive me, sweetling. It has never been my intention to bring you sorrow. A man never wants to see the one he loves in pain.”

Sansa let out a growl in frustration. “Then why not say it, my lord?”

He chuckled and leaned forward to press a kiss to her lips. “I thought I had.”

“No. Not properly,” she insisted, turning as he tried to kiss her again, so that his lips brushed her cheek instead.

Petyr tilted her face back towards his, expression suddenly serious. “It’s been a long time, since I’ve made such a declaration. But I do love you. Very much.” His eyes trained downwards, to her stomach. “And our child. And I would do anything and everything for you. To make you happy. To keep you safe. Today was only a fraction of the depths that I would go for you. You must know that.” His tone turned insistent at the end, as if he were begging her to understand how much he truly cared, that her belief in his words meant absolutely everything to him.

Sansa wasted no time in kissing him, pulling back only when they were both breathless. “I do now,” she said softly, letting her joy show plainly across her features.

His expression mirrored hers, and their lips met again in another kiss. And another. And another. Until they were both lost, every action proving the words they had just said to one another.

 

* * *

 

After Lysa’s death, the rest fell easily into place. Petyr played the game with exceptional finesse, his protege Sansa his pride and joy. Marillion took the fall for Lysa’s death, and the grief stricken and sickly Robin Arryn was easily nudged into continuing with the wedding, having been impressed upon that Lysa would have wanted him to be happy, and to rule the Eyrie as he was meant to do so, now that he was of age. Once Robin and Sansa were married, her true identity was revealed to all, and since Robin had known from the start, and it meant he’d made a far better match than previously assumed, no one could protest at the deception.

It wasn’t hard to fool Sweetrobin into thinking he’d bedded Sansa on their wedding night, due to his sickly constitution and dependency on sweetsleep. Afterwards, anytime Robin expressed any interest in such activities (which was very rare), Sansa used a similar tactic, ensuring she’d never be forced to actually be with him. Two months later, she revealed that she was pregnant, and they celebrated the promise of Robin’s heir. And, two months after that, the boy died peacefully in his sleep, having finally succumbed to his illness (and the increased dosings of sweetsleep Sansa made sure to give him, whose effects had slowly been poisoning him for years).

As Robin’s widow, and the (supposed) mother of his unborn child, who would be the heir once he came of age, Sansa then took control over the Eyrie, ruling with Petyr’s guidance. Months after Robin had passed, and only a week before she was set to give birth, she married Petyr, and though there were some whispers among the lords, it was allowed, uncontested. The wedding was everything she could have ever hoped for, and more, simpler than her previous two, out of respect for the departed lord Robin, but far more lavish where it counted, her vows finally spoken with conviction. He was hers, and she was his. From this day, until the end of their days.

And so it was. They had a little boy, and though he was Robin Arryn’s in name, he was Petyr’s son. A girl followed soon after, and they named her Alayne, for Petyr’s mother. Both children were dark haired and beautiful, eyes full of cunning. And both were doted on by their loving parents, and adored by all that met them. There were those that might have questioned the parentage of the oldest, but for one reason, or another, those suspicions were not brought forward.

The Eyrie prospered under Sansa and Petyr’s care, and while the rest of the country was ravaged by war, it remained untouched and impenetrable. A portion of the Knights of the Vale were sent North during a strategic moment, to help Stannis’ army reclaim Winterfell, and the hopeful king gratefully bestowed Sansa’s family seat back into her care. She chose to rule the North from afar, while Westeros was still in upheaval, and while white walkers and dragons wreaked havoc, she and Petyr stayed out of the turmoil, pulling strings from behind the security of the Eyrie’s walls. They were not above taking risks, but they knew their strengths, and they were not meant for the battlefield. Their battles were won with words and charm, gold and secrets, promises and ink.

In the end, every risk they had taken, had been worth it. And Sansa knew, that with Petyr by her side, she’d do it all again. For what was life, without a little risk?

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first sizable attempt at canonverse so hopefully you like it!
> 
> A few notes:
> 
> In this story, I figure that Sansa has been horseback riding, which can sometimes break the hymen. Because I am kind, I made that the case for her, so she didn’t have to suffer through any pain which would detract from the moment.
> 
> This is a mix of show and book canon, with my own spin. Approximate show ages are used, so Robin is 13 and Sansa is like 16 or 17.
> 
> Also, I'm not super well versed in moon tea, this is just based on fic reading and comments I've come across about it, so hopefully it's at least somewhat accurate. 
> 
> And hopefully the plot works ok. I don't claim to be an expert in the inner workings of the game and the succession of heirs etc lol. Which is why I usually stick to modern AUs.
> 
> Let me know what you think?


End file.
